


Just One Word

by sno4wy



Category: Forgotten Realms, The Legend of Drizzt Series - R. A. Salvatore
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt, Eventual Happy Ending, Happy Ending, M/M, Sad with a Happy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-06-28 12:21:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15707130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sno4wy/pseuds/sno4wy
Summary: Jarlaxle won't wake up, Entreri has a difficult time coping with that reality.





	1. Despair

The mercenary lay stock-still on the bed. At his side was his companion, as stiff as the simple wooden chair that he sat in. The smallish man’s shoulders were tense, as were his torso, his hips, his arms and his legs. He’d been that way for so many hours that his entire frame was sore, but he couldn’t relax, not when the tightness in his chest nailed him to the back of his chair.

An owl hooted outside, but the call did not draw the human’s dark gray eyes away from the prone figure’s face. He couldn’t recall the last time that he’d seen that ebony-skinned visage so empty, so blank, as characterless as a frozen lake under a moonless night. Looking upon those expressionless features, he couldn’t help but feel the wrongness implicit in their immobility, couldn’t help but think of the vivid panoply of aspects that they should display instead. That realization stung him as thoroughly as though he’d broken the surface of that frozen lake and plunged into the icy depths, but still, the assassin didn’t move.

His aching body cried for relief, begging him to adopt a less exhausting posture. Truly, he wanted to surrender to those primal needs, to collapse partially on the bed, or even to simply rest his head against clasped hands. But he couldn’t, his arms did not feel like they belonged to him, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the his companion’s face, not when he already questioned the efficacy of his magically-enhanced vision. With each passing hour, he’d wondered more if his darkvision was in fact not working, and that he was just imagining seeing as well as he was. The drow’s skin was so dark, making his expressions sometimes hard for others to perceive even in broad daylight. Still, it could all be some kind of a trick, a prank, which his companion so loved to play on him. He did give him his darkvision after all, this could all just be some sort of setup to get a rise out of him.

These kinds of thoughts had been flitting around in his head like annoying moths for a while now, but he’d sternly chased them away or squashed those that weren’t fast to get away. Now, it seemed as though his mind was as stiff as his body, and it could no longer banish the pests from settling down where he did not want them to land. A new wave of pain shot out through him from his chest, leaving him gasping for air. 

Artemis Entreri heard his own breath, and was finally able to move against the spell. It wasn’t fair to call it a spell, for save for very few exceptions, no magic could hold him as stringently as this one had. He still wasn’t free of it, but he was able to reach forward with one stiff hand. Gingerly, he rested his palm on the ebony forehead, the faint warmth meeting his skin causing his tight features to painfully stretch into a frown. 

His new position was even more strenuous than his previous one, but Entreri didn’t pull away. Instead, he thought to the ineffectual clerics, the useless priests of countless faiths, the many potions that would not work their magic, and the smattering of herbs that were supposed to be curative. He didn’t have to look to the pile of plant matter mixed with shattered pieces of glass to remember his frustration and dismay. 

The assassin’s thoughts then moved to vague faces of unknown figures, all of them laughing in his head at the cause of his predicament, rejoicing at his companion’s current state. His free hand clenched into a fist, and his entire body heated with mounting rage as he thought of how their glee would multiply if his grief were made to deepen. “Jarlaxle, I swear,” he growled, but his voice came out coarse, barely audible, his vocal chords refusing to cooperate with him after he’d denied them moisture and relaxation for so long.

Entreri forced himself to swallow, the motion in his throat causing his eyes to burn. Stubbornly forcing them to stay open despite the stinging sensation from doing so, he moved his hand from the drow’s brow down the side of the elegant still face. Two of his sensitive fingers trailed slowly along the smooth, impeccable black skin as his heart first warmed to the beauty beneath his touch, and then shattered at the lack of any reaction. The movement was meant to distract himself, but instead, Entreri was gasping harder for breath each time his fingers crested a contour, the battle against his own body further lost as his fingertips caressed a dip. He tried to will his thoughts back to the taunting faces of the unseen enemies, but his hand shook more at what seemed an inevitability, and his attempts to devise the most dangerous assassination that he’d yet to attempt only made his efforts to draw even breaths more laborious.

“Jarlaxle, I swear,” Entreri attempted to growl once more, but the sound was as small as a single pebble dropped into the soundless sea. A whimper escaped his lips, and horrified, the assassin fell to his knees, the wooden chair clacking away noisily. His entire body was convulsing, and his efforts to still it only made it shake more. Each inhale came to him wetly and noisily, and the more he tried to silence them, the louder his exhales burst from his chest. Throwing his back hard against the bed and instantly regretting it as he did so, the distraught man made himself very small, huddling into his core, his nails digging into his flesh through his sleeves. The sheathed blades in his weapons belt thudded against the bed frame, and he began worrying about disturbing the sleeper before he reminded himself of how unnecessary that was. He buried his face in his arms, ashamed for the tears that rolled down it, humiliated by his lungs’ requirement of air that prevented him from silencing the ugly sounds coming out of his mouth, and chagrined that all the training and discipline from his unnaturally-long life could not still his body at this moment. But what angered him the most was that he could not deny that he could slay every Matron Mother of Menzoberranzan, every demon prince of the Abyss, every archdevil of the Nine Hells and every god of the celestial planes, that no matter what he swore, that none of it mattered. That no matter how violently his convulsing body shook the bed, that it didn’t matter, for he was utterly helpless in this moment.

“Jarlaxle, please…” the broken voice implored the darkness. Only the catches of his own breath and the patter of his own tears against wooden planks of the floor answered him.

 

 

 

“…please don’t leave me.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the dear friend who has helped myself and many others through our own dark times, may our thoughts reach you and pull you through your uncertain condition.


	2. Prayer

Rain. It bore down like a relentless army, clattering against slick rooftops like blades against shields. Peals of thunder beat incessantly like the drums of war. Lightning streaks ignited the sky like volleys of flaming arrows. The city, which was barely more than a town, shuddered against the relentless onslaught, its citizens as subdued as farmers huddling in a barn while swords drank their red fill less than a field’s length away. Even those surrounded by stone that was wrapped about sturdy frames and thick beams had much to fear, for upon the waves of the Sea of Swords came squalls like charging cavalry with sabers raised high.

In hushed tones, the town-city’s denizens whispered to one another, hesitant to raise their voices despite the nigh-impossibility of being heard above the tumultuous cacophony. Despite the shadows that deepened every corner, few candles were lit, as though folk feared challenging the effulgence of blinding light that so oft seared the skies. The Storm Lord Talos might as well have made the fledgling coastal city his domain, the aberrant intensity of the storm befitting the will of a god of destruction. Indeed, it was beyond foolhardiness to attempt to brave the tempest, and even a fool would’ve been wise enough to recognize the folly of challenging a god.

The lone human who walked the street was neither foolhardy nor a fool. Shielded from the scrutiny of other mortals he was, his heavy dark cloak rendering him no more than another flickering shadow on the darkened street. But shielded from the judgment of the heavens he was not, for although it was not The Storm Lord nor any named deity whom battered Luskan this night, the prowess of the rainstorm and its gales were sufficient to force even this most capable character to acknowledge the divine-like dominance. His normally balanced gait was irregular as he picked his path across the cobblestones, their slick unevenness making them as dangerous as sharpened knives. The sodden man’s characteristic surefootedness surrendered to shuffles and stumbles, for it was all that he could do to keep himself upright against the raging storm that buffeted him this way and that, changing directions as unpredictably as though the gusts were driven by the wings of a crazed dragon.

A few times, he came close to falling, but the most that he’d allow was the touch of one leather gauntlet-covered hand against the craggy stone street. As though to punish him for his hubris, a blast of wind that was at least as much water as it was air slammed the defiant man against a rickety wall, the impact sending a  loud crash shuddering through the boards. Startled cries rang out from the people cowering behind the dubious cover, but much quieter was the grunt that the collision drew from behind the cloaked man’s clenched teeth.

As he allowed a breath to compose himself, the assassin glared at the stormy skies with mutinous gray eyes. The heavens mocked him by whipping ice-cold globules directly into his steely gaze. But he didn’t blink, paying no heed to the trailing beads that ran down his face, where they lingered imperceptibly upon his high cheekbones before rushing down the deep grooves that outlined his scowl. The watery trails might’ve looked like tears, but for the defiance so unconditionally written in the resolute man’s countenance that it belied even the faintest suggestion of weakness.

But even the strongest will has limits, the most tenacious discipline its outer edge. The resolute man’s hand betrayed a quiver before he stilled it, his shoulders slumping before he forced them square once more. As he lurched to a stop before a sturdy two-floor building, he summoned a facsimile of the reserves of energy that’d already been spent, and pushed in the door.

Like starving wolves sensing fresh prey, the torrent rushed in through the exposed entryway. A streak of lightning threw an elongated impression of a humanoid across the newly-wetted floor, a gust nearly extinguished the single lamp sitting on the counter. The small flame flickered dangerously but did not die out, stubborn as the figure whose shadow was many times longer than its caster. Though normally, a warm light in the adumbral space would’ve been a welcoming sight to the thoroughly soaked man, he hesitated. For many heartbeats longer than it took his darkvision-enhanced eyes to ascertain that no threat lingered amidst the seemingly secure refuge, Artemis Entreri paused in the doorway. Meanwhile, the downpour lost none of its chill as it permeated his weatherproofed heavy cloak, passing through his already saturated dark locks and flowing down his neck as though threatening to drown him from within. Yet, still he stood, accepting the deluge, his hand too tired to grip the door’s handle even whilst each drop in the streams that ran from his boots stole away a bit more of his already thoroughly-tapped reserves of life-sustaining heat.

Finally, when he felt as though he might be forced to enter the room by gracefully toppling onto his own face, the assassin yanked himself past the threshold with a forward jerk of his neck, as though it were a rope tied to the leaden block that was his body. His feet clomped against the wet floor, loud as falling bricks and no less unfeeling. A sudden reverse in the current sucked the door shut, and it was instinct alone that drew the exhausted man’s hand out of danger. Had he a chance to think about it, he might’ve attempted to stop the door from shutting out the maelstrom, for although the elements had battered and besieged him, they stung his skin with acute sensation and rang in his ears with a deafening noise that at least served to force consciousness upon him. 

But now, even though the sturdy walls barely muffled the tumult outside, Entreri felt as though a layer of wax coated his ears, just as the familiar but unwelcome numbness spread through his chest and mind. Mechanically, he shrugged off his cloak and tossed it at the rack. The entire ensemble tipped, unable to support the multiplied weight of the water-laden garment. It clattered loudly against the floor, a plain white mask tumbling free of the cloak and rack and rolling a few paces away, but all of that only drew an absentminded glance from the items’ owner. One who’d gazed into those same dark eyes out in the storm would not be able to recognize their stare now, vacant, uncomprehending, diffuse. The owner of those empty eyes started to move towards the fallen apparatus, then stopped, the disorientation within his gaze spreading through the rest of him. As in so many instances in his life, Entreri forced his body into motion again, but it wasn’t with a growl, but with something akin to a deep moan. As he lifted the pole and attempted different ways to balance it with his soaked cloak, his hands moved with the imprecise ponderousness of a dock worker rather than the graceful cadence of an artisan. As he struggled to keep the whole ensemble upright, his attention was the coarse survey of a digger rather than the acuity of a surveyor. 

When the cloak hanger was finally re-erected, its intended burden laid in a soggy pile at its base. The puddle forming around the heap grew with the contribution from other shed garments, which were similarly tossed aside and lying in a sloppy arrangement formed from convenience rather than pragmatism. The puddle continued to grow, augmented by the run-off from the shivering man standing amidst the haphazard assortment. The direction of his eyes pointed at the cabinet with drawers full of neatly-sorted towels, clean shirts and trousers, but his gaze did not take any of them in. When Entreri’s mind finally reeled his vision back to that which was before him, still, he didn’t move, his body even turning slightly away as though preparing to enter a defensive crouch against the inanimate items. 

Outside, water continued to fall in unrelenting sheets. The assassin’s vigilance was suddenly shattered by his body starting to keel forward without his behest. Only then did the exhausted man break his stillness, catching himself and transforming his momentum forward into the hooking of a handle, his recovery of his balance pulling the drawer open. He stripped off his shirt and tossed it aside, the soaked garment falling into itself like a fishing net on the floor. However, the burden that should’ve fallen away with it instead shifted to his chest, adding to the weight that already sat upon his heart. Removing his breeches was like pulling hide from his flesh, so thoroughly had the water permeated the leather, but so, too, did freeing his skin from the confines shift the constraints inwards. Entreri kicked the leggings to the side but found no satisfaction from the motion, instead feeling as though he kicked away a stone from the base of an already-crumbling wall. His frame shivered violently, but he did not snatch up a dry towel, instead pinching it by an edge as though it were a soiled rag. He did not work the water from his dripping black locks, instead settling the towel over his shoulders as if it were a short cloak. This brought him no true measure of warmth, and were he himself, he might’ve felt ridiculous for his utter inefficiency at performing this most simple of tasks.

But neither efficiency nor efficacy even neared the forlorn assassin’s thoughts as he gazed upon the pitch-black staircase stretching up away from him. He stared, motionless again, until his body gave another forward lurch, and this time, he only managed to catch himself after one, two, three stumbles. With a long sigh that was drowned out by the din of the cascading cacophony, Entreri halfheartedly wiped the moisture from his skin and hair. Without bothering to sidestep the the discarded towel, the assassin forced his bare feet one in front of the other until he could set his hand on the railing that accompanied the steps.

The flickering candlelight faded behind him, taking with it touches of color but none of the forms. So, too, did the fading light take the colors from inside him. Entreri shifted his mind to his soles, feeling the balls of his feet rolling against the cooled wood, counting the half-breaths that his heels grazed against the smooth boards. This alone kept him moving, toes flexing with each rhythmic touchdown, the predictability of the pattern an anchor in a life that had become so unpredictable.

Suddenly, the the forlorn sequence froze. A rattle sounded from above, feeble as distress signal amidst the relentless onslaught, but promising that hope yet lived. The assassin’s pause lasted not even a heartbeat, and before he knew it, his body was at the top of the landing, his quickened exhales bouncing off of the closed door even while his mind still counted his heel-falls. Before Entreri could understand his own thoughts, his fingers had already disarmed all of his meticulously-set traps. A twitch of his muscles had already thrown the door wide, before his mind could warn them to not move. 

Despite his self-preservation instinct, his eyes went to the bed first. He knew that his magically-enhanced sight could see perfectly in the total darkness, but still he stared, disbelieving. He’d heard movement, so why did Jarlaxle still lay so still? 

_A ruse_ , Entreri thought, as his heart thrust forward against his chest, as though eager to leap to the prone form’s side, even if it meant doing so without the rest of his body.

_It’s just like him to try to trick me as soon as he woke up_ , the assassin told himself, but his leaden feet would not move. 

He then saw the empty cup, still rolling back and forth where it’d fallen, and felt the remaining strength leave him. Entreri managed to catch the frame of the door with a hand that felt like it had no bones in it. He told himself that he held fast to avoid going to his knees, but a guilty voice deep within whispered the truth of his cowardice. 

As the rain had soaked him until it threatened to permeate his skin, so too did the gnawing ache burrow through his limbs like a devouring worm. Shame of his early dawdling sped the enervated man to the vulnerable figure’s side, whereupon all haste was lost, transformed into delicate exactitude. Tenderly, he laid a palm against the smooth ebony forehead, then winced when he felt less warmth than from his own rain-chilled skin. Nonetheless, the assassin carefully drew the blankets around the lithe form. As he’d done countless times already, he slid one hand behind the unconscious drow’s back while the other tucked the blankets around the lifeless body. The tired man’s arms repeated the motions that’d become so painfully familiar to him while his mind balked, until the mercenary sat partially-upright against the headboard. 

A rumble of thunder sounded so close by that Entreri felt it reverberate within his rib cage, but so tightly had he boarded the shutters closed that no flash of lightning distorted the colorless consistency of the room. No matter what elements raged outside, he’d ensured that the space he’d “sanctified” in his own way was as peaceful as it could be. His usual thoroughness had paid off, as everything was consistent –  _too consistent_ , Entreri noted with anguish. As he studied his companion, the only other occupant in the room, he felt as though he were frozen in time. Jarlaxle was as still as the furnishings, yet so at ease that he could’ve been simply closing his eyes for a moment. 

_A moment without end._

Entreri roughly shook the thought from his head and gruffly grabbed two dark blue berries from a small bowl on the nearby table. He’d long stopped reaching for the ones at the bottom, for those that he didn’t use disappeared after a day anyway. Even though he needed its magic, the assassin almost wished that the bowl didn’t replenish itself, for each morning that he looked upon the newly-spawned pile of dew-kissed fruit, it seemed as though he were taken back to the previous day in a torturous cycle without end.

With eyes fixed upon his companion, Entreri set the two berries carefully between his teeth. He gingerly slid onto the bed with the immobile figure, his attention focused to such a degree upon minimally jostling the mattress that he didn’t notice the soft coos and assurances he breathed around the berries. He eased the unconscious drow’s head close enough until he could lift it with a nudge of his own, and, with one hand gently but firmly cupping Jarlaxle’s shoulder, Entreri pulled open the mercenary’s mouth, took one of the berries from between his teeth, and pushed it onto his companion’s tongue. With practiced ease, the assassin then guided the mercenary’s jaw up and down. He paused to nuzzle his cheek against his companion’s forehead, whispering a soft apology as the bristles on his jaw brushed roughly against the smooth black skin. Before the drow’s head could tip too far back, the attentive human caught it with a raised shoulder, his free hand already massaging the bared throat. Purple juices leaked from the corners of the mercenary’s pale gray lips, but the assassin’s hand was already there, accepting the staining onto his own skin. 

As he guided his companion, Entreri tipped the remaining berry back into his own mouth. Chewing and swallowing in conjunction with the mercenary both soothed and stung his heart. This had become how they would dine together, and tonight, the weeping heavens serenaded them.

The bitter melody was almost too much to bear.

“The other ‘Lords’ are as obnoxious as ever.” the assassin began, the way his words cracked marking his throat as the only part of him not having been soaked by the relentless rain. His voice echoed hollowly in the empty room. He attempted to swallow what felt like a rock lodged in his throat. 

“So fixated are they upon their delusions of grandeur that they still have not noticed that I’ve taken your place.”

Entreri felt his breath catch, so he pasted a self-deprecating smile on his face. The forced flexing of muscles briefly distracted him from the intensifying feelings of despair rising inexorably within his heart.

“They’ve finally agreed to allow Luskan to use their precious highways,” he pushed on. “You would’ve found much humor in their chagrin in being forced to acknowledge the fruits of your work.”

_Your work._

Pain flooded the assassin’s chest, as though a hole had ruptured his flesh and bone and the still-hungry wolves had found him in the same instant. The deluge of depression, despair, doubt and defeat poured in. He gasped for calming breaths, desperate not to allow the flood to distort his voice. His shaking frame shifted the precious consignment in his arms, causing the drow’s head to fall forward against his neck to rest perfectly in the crook.

“This was made specifically for me,” Entreri heard Jarlaxle’s musical tone croon in his thoughts. 

The embankment that he had struggled so hard to build over the past months blasted wide apart. 

Even while his mind screamed at him in horrified admonition, the distraught human roughly gathered up the far too still form, pulling the drow over his own legs and encircling him with his arms. Unable to stop the convulsions of his own body and the disgusting racket coming out of his own mouth, the assassin threw his mind far out beyond the walls, where the tumult spared him his own shameful display. He imagined himself floating weightlessly amidst the maelstrom, the sheets of water passing through him as easily as did the streaks of harsh light. He wanted to drift away even farther, but he could not, perhaps as penance for his indulgence.

Moistness on his arm called his mind back to his body. Entreri looked down and saw the cooling streams that ran off of the smooth black arms onto his own, the hairs of the latter delaying the wetting of the blankets around them. Cursing, the assassin slipped out from the bed before his show of weakness could cause further disruption, roughly wiping his arm against his bare back and berating himself with words sharper than any blade that’d ever punctured his skin. Delicately, he straightened the sheets that he’d ruffled around the drow, then gently smoothed the covers over the still and quiet mercenary. He found and flattened every ripple in his ritual of atonement, until he realized that his efforts achieved an effect akin to a burial shroud.

Entreri’s hands dropped to his sides and he slowly sank down until he felt his heels dig into his bare thighs. His mind began issuing the customary instructions for climbing onto the mattress with minimal disturbance of his unconscious bedfellow, instructions that he’d followed for countless nights, but his body didn’t move. It wasn’t exhaustion that pinned him there, but the weight of  awareness. Awareness that his skin was still chilled from the rain, awareness that the deluge had tainted him with the city’s filth. Awareness that the garments that would provide an acceptable barrier between his companion and his disgrace were absent, and an awareness that “acceptable” was far from sufficient.

Entreri’s forehead fell until his messy black locks splayed out against the neat white sheet. His fingers clasped before himself in a vain effort to still the shaking of his hands. 

“Jarlaxle, open your eyes.” His voice was quiet, subdued. “Open your eyes, and look upon your city. Look upon this place that you’ve carved for yourself, in a world that wasn’t meant for you. Look upon your accomplishments. You finally have all that you’d ever wanted. Please, open your eyes, and look upon them.”

He swallowed. He could keep his heavy lids open no more. His willpower and discipline were stolen from him by the grueling passage of time, a merciless ravaging reaver that stole, too, words from his very lips.

 

 

“Jarlaxle, please, open your eyes, and look upon me.” 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not happy with how overwritten this portion is, but I'm not really able to fix it right now. I wrote it as a break from a larger project that's been feeling like writing a grocery/laundry list and I think I overcompensated for how dull that piece has been feeling with going over the top with this one. :\ Rather than getting more frustrated with trying to fix this though, I decided to just cut it loose and try to do better next time.
> 
> If you've made it this far, thanks for mucking through. There are two more portions, both will be much shorter and hopefully less overwrought.


	3. Nightmare

As he had for so many nights, Entreri wandered the fog-filled plane. He’d come to recognize the gloomy place and knew it to be a dream, so he didn’t fight it, as he had the first time he’d arrived here. Back then, he’d collapsed from exhaustion after desperate and vain attempts to resuscitate Jarlaxle, so his first thought upon waking in the gray haze was that he’d arrived in the Fugue. 

The assassin smiled mirthlessly as he recalled his hubris, to believe that he’d somehow managed to follow the drow’s soul into the afterlife. Even more laughably, he’d immediately set off to try to find the mercenary’s spark without a shadow of his usual circumspection, so convinced was he that if he didn’t succeed the Demon Queen of Spiders would snatch Jarlaxle forever away from him. For what felt like tendays, Entreri had futilely wandered the featureless gray plane, meeting nothing but the muffled echoes of his own forlorn shouts of the mercenary’s name.

Now, he simply stood amidst the still mists, waiting for the dream to release him. Like so many of his nightmares, it seemed a matter of them being done with him rather than him being done with them. Another reason that he didn’t fight the gray dream was that, unlike the nightmares, it would release him into physical warmth, and that warmth would not be tainted by a mental chill that crushed both his body and mind.

It was always difficult to tell the passage of time within a dream, but Entreri waited for what he believed to be much longer than usual, and still, no physical warmth roused his body. He waited longer, but still the heat did not come. After yet more waiting, which was met with no change, the assassin set off in a direction that looked the same as all the rest. Moving seemed as pointless as standing still, for the scenery did not change. But, he kept walking, for he knew not what else to do.

Then, suddenly, the mist thinned, as though the fog was parting. Thinking that perhaps he’d found a way out of the dream after all, Entreri quickened his steps, his pace increasing even more as he made out the vague shapes of buildings and streets. He looked down, and saw familiar uneven cobblestones beneath his feet. He looked up, and saw the irregular rooftops jutting out asymmetrically overhead. Even though fog still obscured much of his surroundings, he knew in his heart that he was in Luskan once more.

But this wasn’t the Luskan he knew. Tattered sails hung from the moldy masts of decrepit ships in the harbor, the rotting planks of broken docks jutting up at odd angles. Cobwebs hung in window frames with shattered pieces of glass, shutters dangled on loose nails. Abandoned wagons laid on their sides with the desiccated bones of horses littering the ground nearby. It was like a vision of the Shadowfell, but Entreri had visited the Shadowfell, and even the darkest despair that he felt there was unlike the malaise that filled his heart now.

Realization struck him like a lightning bolt. The assassin ran to where he was supposed to be laying in dreams, repeating the steps he thought he took earlier that very night to what was supposed to have been a sturdy but nondescript two-story building. He paused only a heartbeat to gawk at the sagging frame before bolting inside, not bothering to look at the door that clattered hollowly to the ground behind him. Each stair splintered apart beneath each of his steps, and he had to run his quickest to stay ahead of the whole structure collapsing underneath him.

The stairway fell into a heap of rubble behind Entreri as he stood on the landing, the door before him perforated by mildew and permeated by mold. It collapsed inward at just the brush of his fingertips, shooting forth a blast of stale blight into the space that the assassin had painfully “sanctified”. He leapt over the ruined wood, which already began to crumble to dust. He was by the prone figure’s side within the same breath, the figure whose skin was as ashen as this gray world.

“Jarlaxle?" 

Entreri’s voice sounded distant even to his own ears. As he had done earlier, he gingerly touched his palm to the drow’s forehead, but drew it back with a gasp. 

It was ice cold.

"Jarlaxle!" 

Still, his shout sounded so far away. The frantic human scooped up the drow while simultaneously trying to gather the blanket, his haste causing the latter to fall to the dust-covered floor. The wooden boards should’ve been spotless, for he’d made it part of his daily routine to wipe away every trace of filth from this sacred space. 

Yet Entreri paid the dirt no mind, for the mercenary was so painfully cold. The assassin swiped a foot across the floor until he hooked the blanket, which he desperately wrapped around his companion, even though his doing so meant tainting his most precious charge with dirt. Furiously did Entreri rub Jarlaxle’s stiff limbs, his thoughts stubbornly affixing themselves within memories of bygone days in the cold north and how his companion had suggested that he tried rubbing his limbs when he’d complained about the chill making him stiff. 

But Artemis Entreri was pragmatic, too pragmatic to allow himself delusion even when it might’ve comforted him. Even before his forlorn eyes rose to see all around them crumbling to dust, he knew that, as with all things, Luskan could not survive without its heart.

"Jarlaxle,” the assassin whispered as he bowed his head and bent his shoulders forward protectively over the mercenary. The ceiling, walls and furniture faded to ash and blew away on an invisible wind. Entreri vaguely felt bits of the debris catch on his skin and stick to his hair. Those sensations too went away as the world around them disappeared, and though he couldn’t feel his arms or what laid within them anymore, he still held fast. Then, he saw his own body start to chip apart, each piece falling off like a torn bit of parchment. His arm crumbled to dust, but he managed to turn his body so that the disintegrating wind could not yet touch Jarlaxle. Bits of his clothing drifted past him, rags crumbling to ashes. His hair was next, thick dark strands turning into insubstantial soot. 

Finally, Entreri felt the field of his vision narrowing. He smiled, and whether he still had lips hardly mattered, as he knew that his desire would be fulfilled. He would go first, he’d protect his companion until he was no more, but more than anything, he wouldn’t have to experience losing Jarlaxle again. 

The assassin’s dark irises faded to dullness before crumbling away too, and what remained of his indomitable will kept his pupils affixed upon the only remaining solid shape. But even that indomitable will eventually yielded to the ravaging decomposition, as the little black dots were yanked from where they’d defined the disciplined human’s steady gaze. The black dots bobbed, resisting being carried away by the flow of particles enough to affix themselves to the drow’s cheek. There, they lingered, like a long final kiss, before disintegrating and rolling like tears down the smooth obsidian surface.

But even etherealness brought no relief, for though he could not see, hear nor feel, Entreri still “lived”. He’d become one with the endless gray, his sorrow its atmosphere, his desperate plea the breath that dismantled his cherished one.

“ _Jarlaxle, please don’t leave me,_ ” whispered the wind that broke the lifeless drow into pieces. 


	4. Swear

Warmth. Not the gentle caress of sunshine, nor the soothing embrace of a hot bath. It was a physical warmth of a sort, namely that of the gray dream, a detached, impersonal heat that was simply a gradation along the same scale that encompassed hot and cold.

Something brushed against the assassin’s hand, and it instinctively twitched, two fingers catching a bit of fabric between them.  _No, I don’t want to awaken_ , Entreri thought to himself as he reluctantly felt himself rouse, knowing the cold reality that awaited him.

_I don’t want to wake up_ , he thought again, but unlike previous times that this whim had entered his mind, he didn’t gruffly chase it away. The dark images that haunted his night were fading, their ice-cold bonds fraying away in the wake of the dispassionate warmth of his own body. However, while mere physical heat was not sufficient to banish the coldness of isolation, so long as he didn’t open his eyes, he didn’t have to acknowledge reality. So long as he laid there accepting it, the warmth, even as impersonal as it was, would not go away.

_Laid there?_

The events of the previous night came rushing back to him. The torrential downpour, his cowardice-wrought neglect, his head resting on his hands as he knelt beside the bed. He’d assumed that he’d fallen asleep like that, however, the lack of cramping and soreness in his legs suggested otherwise. Had he been so exhausted that his body had moved him by habit?

The assassin opened his eyes, immediately and reflexively bringing a hand over to shield his vision when sunlight stuck his consciousness like an axe shattering a stout door. The gold and orange hue that he’d thought was left under his lids by the impression of warmth proved to be anything but a mental lapse. Realizing that it could only be that the storm had somehow dismantled his work on the window, allowing the sunlight to stream in, Entreri lifted himself to tend to the matter.

Or rather, he attempted to lift himself. 

An obstruction that shouldn’t have been in the bed stopped him. Confused, he blinked down at the impediment, wondering how he could’ve slept through the storm tearing apart the shutters so violently as to throw the debris onto him. 

But then, he realized that it wasn’t a bar, but rather an arm. An ebony-skinned arm. 

Uncomprehending gray eyes turned to rest on the frail form propping itself up on one elbow. Within the same breath, Entreri felt nothing but himself falling in to the glittering ruby pools that shone upon him.

A gray-tinged dusky brown hand shot up to cup an obsidian cheek. Sensitive fingertips traced the graceful arcing cheekbone to the delicate edge of a pointed ear. The thumb that followed carefully memorized the deep crater underneath animated red orbs, which shone with a vivacity that belied the feebleness of their owner.

_Is this a dream?_

He heard the cry of seagulls. So, too, did he hear the creaking of the docks and the laden footsteps that thumped upon them. The neighing of horses, the clacking of carriage wheels against the uneven cobblestone streets, even the billowing of sails couldn’t escape his keen ears. Yet all of these sounds were muffled, as sounds would be in a dream.

Or, as sounds tended to be in moments of intense concentration, the seasoned assassin was too afraid to acknowledge.

_May this dream be one I never awake from_ , his mind yearned. However, even in his desperation, his pragmatism demanded more of him. 

“Jarlaxle?” Entreri mouthed, quietly as though it weren’t his will to do so. His throat cracked, and he frowned. Things didn’t hurt so clearly in his dreams.

His eyes went wide. 

“Jarlaxle!" 

He would’ve shouted if he could, but all he was able to manage was a croak. Were he his usual self, he might’ve been thankful that the circumstances favored him and prevented him from making a fool of himself. 

But in that moment, Artemis Entreri hardly cared about making a fool of himself or being a fool. He swept up the mercenary into his embrace as he had the night before. And, just as the night before, he sobbed, but he didn’t cast his awareness out into the storm this time. There was no storm, not even a bit of cloud to obstruct the sun’s glorious glow. Yet, the warmth outside was far inferior to that which was centered upon the assassin in this precious moment.

Some part of him was aware that his own hot tears were falling from his sun-struck eyes and dripping onto his companion’s arm, then flowing past that to plop their rapidly cooling path onto his own arm. There, the break formed by the rows of tiny hairs was insufficient to halt the moisture’s inexorable movement. Entreri knew this, yet at the same time he neither knew why he knew, nor cared. He also knew that the noises he was emitting were loud, but nowhere near as loud as the joyous song of his heart. 

Yet despite the clamor he was making and the lack of effort he made to quiet the tumult, he heard clearly the finest music that’d ever touched his ears in his too-long life:

"My  _abbil_ , my trusted friend, my most cherished one – I will never leave you." 


End file.
